


Little Bird

by Caffeine_faerie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, I Love You Scene (Sherlock: The Final Problem), Redemption, TFP - Freeform, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 19:42:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15892806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffeine_faerie/pseuds/Caffeine_faerie
Summary: My take on the events before the final montage in The Final Problem. Molly deserves some answers, Sherlock needs to come to terms with who he is, and Mycroft has years of guilt to atone for.





	1. Prologue

Molly hesitated before she answered the door. She wasn't expecting anybody, and at the same time she was half-hoping for a visit.

"Dr Hooper..."

It wasn't the Holmes sibling she was expecting, but then, neither was the tone Mycroft used when he addressed her. He sounded... she couldn't place the emotion he was using. But it wasn't one she associated with the elder brother. She opened the door and surveyed him. Mycroft looked different. Haunted. Uncertain. That's what she had heard in his voice. Uncertainty.

"Mr Holmes."

"Dr Hooper... I'm sorry to disturb you at home -"

"Again."

Mycroft nodded at her interjection. He'd sent a team through to sweep her house for cameras and explosives early the week before. She had taken the intrusion well to all reports, but the psychological assessment that had come back with it had him as concerned about her as he was his brother.

"Again. This time, however, I'd appreciated it if you came with me. There are several questions you have, and answers you deserve."

"If this is about Sherlock..."

"No, Dr Hooper." Mycroft's tone was surprisingly gentle to her ears. "Well, not entirely. It's about you."

"I haven't seen him yet." She ignored him in a rush. "He hasn't seen me." She wanted to avoid Mycroft's gaze. She assumed it was full of pity for the lovesick doctor.

"Yes, you have, Dr Hooper. And he's finally seen you."

It was not the answer she was expecting. And there was no pity there. There was... respect? She looked up. Yes, Mycroft was looking at her with something akin to profound respect. And he was still waiting for her decision. He'd asked her to go with him. She did deserve answers, but she found herself hesitating. Mycroft noticed her indecision.

"Dr Hooper. There is a significant amount of context you deserve, and truths I believe you have the right to know. It's not going to be pleasant..." he broke off and she watched a shadow cross his face. He made no effort to hide it, and that shook her slightly. He raised his chin and continued, "but if anybody can handle this information with the delicacy it deserves, it is you."

Molly measured Mycroft for a few seconds. Took a breath, and turned to grab her bag. When she turned back, Mycroft had her coat ready and assisted her into it. He looked grateful. "Thank you Doctor Hooper."

"Don't thank me yet."

"I will be thanking you every day for the rest of my life." Mycroft said it quietly, and with a seriousness that made her blink.

Not for the first time since the phone call, the subsequent MI6 crawl, and the radio silence that followed, Molly wondered what the hell had happened. From the way Mycroft was acting it was significant. She ushered him out, and locked her door behind her, using the time to centre herself. Mycroft guided her to the waiting car with a respectful hand on the small of her back. She knew how he didn't like any sort of physical contact, but he was treating her like the most important person in the world.  _Right. Answers_. She was finally going to get them.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on the events before the final montage in TFP. Molly deserves some answers, Sherlock needs to come to terms with who he is, and Mycroft has years of guilt to atone for.

The car ride had been silent. Mycroft appeared to be lost in his own thoughts and Molly wasn't going to interrupt him. She had a feeling this was going to be a difficult explanation to give and to hear, and Molly soaked in the quiet while she still had the opportunity.

A cup of tea placed in front of her on Mycroft's desk shook her out of her reverie. He was watching her, she could see him weighing up his words and wondered when he had become to easy for her to read.

"Dr Hooper," he began, "you still have your security clearance from the last time you helped save my brother, I thought it wise to keep it updated in case..."

Molly raised her eyebrows at him, and took a sip of her tea. Mycroft coughed apologetically.

"Anyway, what I'm about to say and what you will see is highly classified and sensitive information, both to the security of England, and to my family. Sherlock deemed Dr Watson family enough, and his actions have deemed you to be part of that special coterie too."

Molly didn't know what to think, so looked Mycroft in the eye and waited. He leaned back in his chair and laughed drily.

"You remind me so much of who he could have been." The chuckle became a sombre sigh. "Who he could still become if..." Mycroft paused and looked down briefly before looking up at her again with a tight smile, and stood. "My apologies, I must be causing more questions than giving answers."

"I've noticed this to be a common behaviour among the Holmes siblings."

Molly's comment made Mycroft freeze briefly. She noticed the pained look on his face as he took a deep breath and came around the side of the desk and offered her his hand.

"Your comment has even more truth than you know. Come with me, there's something I need to show you."

Mycroft led her to a private viewing room and sat Molly down in a chair with a remote control. He pulled up a seat next to her and leaned forward to look her in the eye.

"Last weekend, 221B Baker Street was blown up by a grenade."

Molly nodded, she knew about this.

"The grenade was a message from our sister."

Molly blinked. Sister? The quizzical look on her face caused Mycroft to pause and take a deep breath before continuing.

"Sherlock and I have a younger sister, Eurus. She caused him a great deal of pain when we were children, and was sectioned for her safety and the safety of those around her. Sherlock managed to rewrite her out of his memories, but the man he became is courtesy of what she did to him."

"What she did to him." Molly echoed. "What did she do to him?"

Mycroft ran a hand over his face. "Eurus was always different. And she adored Sherlock. He loved her back. He was such an emotional child with a huge capacity to love. And then... well, Eurus changed all that."

"You haven't answered my question, Mycroft. What did she do?"

Mycroft looked up, surprised at Molly's use of his name. She didn't do it that often, and when she did, she reminded him of his mother. Strong and determined and very, very, protective.

"I was coming to that. Eurus has been incarcerated for the last 27 years in a secure facility off the coast. She is a certified genius, and a criminal one at that."

"I'm sorry, did you say 27 years? I thought you said she was younger than Sherlock."

"I did, and she is."

"That poor child..."

"There's nothing poor about her."

"If you think that sending a young child to jail and isolating her from love and family isn't a terrible thing, then I've been very mistaken about you."

Mycroft looked like he had been slapped.

"What was done was for her own protection, and for Sherlock's. It's a burden I've had to bear for a very long time: checking on my sister and ensuring my brother didn't remember and unravel at the hidden trauma."

"Mycroft, what happened to Sherlock."

Molly watched Mycroft bow his head and gather his thoughts again. His eyes were brighter when he raised them to look at her.

"That's what I'm going to show you. Sherlock was insistent on meeting his forgotten sister, and we went to visit her at her place of incarceration."

"I'm guessing you're making it sound far easier than it was."

Mycroft smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I am. We walked into a trap tailor-made for my little brother." He gestured to the screen. "Eurus recorded everything as she was monitoring Sherlock's reactions. I've pulled all the video and audio from the ordeal. Before I have it destroyed, I wanted to give you the opportunity to see what happened, and to come to your own conclusions. I must warn you, it is distressing footage: psychologically and physically. If you choose to watch it, I will leave you alone to do so, it was traumatic enough once, I cannot do it again."

Molly let his words sink in. She needed to check. "You cannot watch it again?"

"No Doctor, I was there. As was Dr Watson. And so were you, for a part of it, although you coloured his actions long after your part was done."

The phone call.

"You heard - "

"Yes, Dr Hooper, I did. This is why you deserve to see everything - have full context about what you were put through - and to ask any questions to need afterwards. I will also organise whatever support you made need should you watch this tape."

"This is my choice?"

"It is."

"And if I don't watch it?"

"I will have it destroyed, and no copies of it, or anything else related to last weekend will ever be found."

Molly considered what Mycroft had told her. She could see the pain on his face, his fatigue, and his uncertainty. He wanted her to see this, she knew that - he was giving her the choice, but there was something on his damned video that Mycroft Holmes desperately wanted her to see."

"Okay." She breathed quietly.

The relief in Mycroft's eyes was evident.

"Thank you, and I'm sorry." He stood, a hand still on the table and looked at her with respect again. "Take all the time you need. If you require food or a break, there will be somebody outside the door to assist you, but I will leave you alone until you wish to talk to me."

Turning on his heel, Mycroft left the room without a backward glance, and Molly found herself in front of a screen, with a remote control in her hand.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on the events before the final montage in TFP. Molly deserves some answers, Sherlock needs to come to terms with who he is, and Mycroft has years of guilt to atone for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Arienne DeVere for her fantastic transcript of TFP (available on LiveJournal), and all those writers who have inspired me with their versions of the aftermath of That Scene.

Molly watches as at the screen comes to life with a young woman – not much older than her – plays the violin in a bleak cell. She has long dark hair and is wearing pale clothes. The feed only shows her back, and the sound of an automatic door brings the unmistakable figure of Sherlock into the frame. The young woman doesn't cease her playing when he enters, and when he takes a step forward, she warns him backward with some jarring nores. Molly can tell that Sherlock seems uncertain: he's cocked his head to one side, but she can't see his face.

"Did you bring it?"

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock sounds like he wasn't expecting that opening line.

"My hairband. Did you bring it like I asked?"

Sherlock hesitates before answering. "I'm not one of the ... I-I don't work here."

"My special hairband."

"I'm not one of your doctors."

"The one I made you steal, from Mummy." The woman sounds exasperated and she turns to face Sherlock. Molly stifles a gasp as she takes in the same fey features: the cheekbones, the chin, the eyes… there can be no doubt that these two are siblings. The woman seems to be fascinated with Sherlock, and Molly finds herself feeling uncomfortable.

"It was the last thing I said to you, remember, the day they took me away."

Sherlock shook his head at her. "No."

"No?"

Molly watches the scene with a growing sense of unease. The young woman – Eurus – is weighing up Sherlock like a snake measuring its prey to strike. The cadences she uses when talking sets off every alarm bell in Molly's brain, and she jumps when, instead of touching glass, Eurus clasps hands with Sherlock.

She has seen both Sherlock and Mycroft act with what others call inhuman carelessness and disregard, but they are nothing to what Molly is watching.

Without warning, Eurus slaps Sherlock over both ears and Molly flinches at the unexpected action – half raising a hand to the screen as she watches Eurus proceed to strangle her older brother – presumably showing him how she got out, and once he'd passed out, she calmly stands, and has the guards drag him – gently – out of the main doors. Eurus pauses and looks directly at the camera, and smiles. Molly feels her blood run cold.

The recording seems shift slightly, it's another cell, similar to Eurus', but Molly can see the glass, and a screen just in front of it. Sherlock is lying on the floor still unconscious, but starting to wake. He coughs, rights himself, and after a few steadying breaths, he starts to pace. He stops briefly when Mycroft, a man Molly doesn't recognise, and an unconscious John are brought into the cell. Sherlock and the unfamiliar man put John on the bed, while Mycroft leaves the camera's line of sight – he must be in the corner.

The camera angle flickers, and the view is now straight at the cells from eye-height. Sherlock is still pacing, Mycroft in one corner, the man in the other, and John is groaning. Molly doesn't know how much time has passed, but she can tell Sherlock is nervous. John groans, as she sees Sherlock shoot a look towards the bed before looking back down at the floor in his pacing.

"How are you?"

John rubs the back of his head "Bit of a lump."

"True that, but you have your uses."

John groans again and sits up. "Did you see your sister?"

"Yes."

Molly watches their interplay and uncertainty grow as the voice of a very scared little girl on a plane pipes through before static. She hears Eurus' voice come from somewhere behind her camera, but from the way Sherlock is looking almost directly at her, Molly surmises that there's a camera above a screen – the screen that' allowing her an eye level look into their cell - and she is seeing what Eurus saw. Molly can see their expressions, the anguish of the man – David – as he pleads for somebody to kill him and spare his wife. She can't watch as John makes him kneel, but almost falls in on herself when he walks away saying he can't do it. It is with mute horror that Molly watches Dave kill himself, feeling sick at what she was witnessing, and then flinched in shock as she listened to the sing song voice of Eurus after another gunshot. From the looks on their faces, Molly can only guess what they have just seen as the look almost directly at her. Sherlock looks absolutely stunned, and from the way Eurus is speaking, she was watching their reactions to the test very closely.

A small door to the left of the cell opens, and as each one vanishes out of the camera's view, Molly sat back and looked up, blinking back the burning feeling behind her eyes. If anybody had doubted how Sherlock had grown in the years she had known him, this video was proving that he was, indeed, human. She couldn't ever think of a time when Sherlock was as mechanical as Eurus appeared to be, but Mycroft's words rang in her head about how his sister made Sherlock the man he was.

The screen flickered and the camera changed to the next room – a table with an envelope it, and a three-paneled window looking out over the sea behind it. As Sherlock, John and Mycroft make it into the camera's range, Molly finds herself bracing for what was to come next.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on the events before the final montage in TFP. Molly deserves some answers, Sherlock needs to come to terms with who he is, and Mycroft has years of guilt to atone for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was such a difficult chapter to write - trying to get the tone and planning the next few chapters after. I don't know how many times I've watched that scene now... but it gets me every single time without fail. I hope I do it justice.
> 
> Shout out again to the amazing Arienne DeVere for her fantastic transcript of TFP (available on LiveJournal), and all those writers who have inspired me with their versions of the aftermath of "The Scene".

Molly watched the scene unfold in stunned disbelief: She thought she knew what was going to happen when Eurus dangled those three brothers outside the window. She could tell Sherlock thought so too when he condemned the killer. None of them expected her to drop the two innocent brothers, and then without any remorse, the third.

It was at this point that Molly realised just how psychotic this third Holmes sibling was, and as they headed to the next test like "soldiers" she began to feel afraid for them. Of course, she reminded herself, that this had all already came to pass, but she had already seen in Mycroft a profound change. And she waited for the scene to change with trepidation.

The room showed an empty coffin: open, with its lid leaning against the wall. Molly got a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. She listened to Sherlock being clinical in his observations until Mycroft turned the coffin lid around.

I love you.

Suddenly, she felt sick. She could see Sherlock's death grip on the edge of the coffin and the look on his face as he immediately understood who the coffin was for. She saw his facade shatter with his back to John and Mycroft as he figured out what was about to happen, and her blood turned to ice at Eurus' cheerful assurances, that "she's perfectly safe. For the moment". From the look on both Sherlock and John's faces, they must have been viewing her in her kitchen.

She listened to Eurus continue and watched Sherlock's face as he walked slowly towards the camera. It must be set above the screen because she can see his every expression.

"Her flat is rigged to explode in approximately three minutes… unless I hear the release code from her lips. I'm calling her on your phone, Sherlock. Make her say it."

Molly felt hazy as she watched John's grasp what Sherlock clearly knew. She could see he was uncomfortable with this, but was trying to figure a way out. Eurus' voice cut through her haze as she was trying to decide whether she really wanted to relive the moment. It was clear to her now what Sherlock had been up to. "Oh, one important restriction: you're not allow to mention in any way at all that her life is in danger. You may not,  _at any point_ , suggest that there is any form of crisis. If you do I will end this session and her life. Are we clear?"

Molly paused the video and squeezed her eyes shut. She had been on the other side of this conversation. Like Mycroft, she didn't want to relive it again, she decided she was just going to skip it. She opened her eyes, and something in the frozen expression of Sherlock on the screen stilled her hand on the remote.

She had wished to see his face when he was breaking her. She had wanted to understand why. She wanted a piece of him if he was going to devastate her as he had. And now she could. The camera was so clear, she could see his every unconscious facial reaction. Mycroft wanted her to see this. This was her context. Was it really going to make a difference? The coffin already said enough. It was a cruel joke. But the joke wasn't on her. She was a pawn. It was twisted, and in her strength, she had twisted it around Sherlock a little more by demanding he said it first. This time, she could see his face when he said it. She didn't know if she wanted to see his eyes when he said those words, but she needed to. Molly still felt sick, but she took a breath and pressed play.

She could her the ringing of the phone as she watched Sherlock standing, holding the pistol with his forehead resting on top of it. She could see how tense he was in the way he held his shoulders, and how his head sprang up when she had finally answered the phone. His tone of voice had been too false, too light, when he had spoken to her. His usual wheedling tone which she hadn't been in the mood for.

It was clear that he was struggling to frame his request without her hanging up. He had been so terrified when he had asked her to say "I love you." He was blundering through in what Molly could see was absolute terror as he realised he was being manoeuvred into a no-win situation. The smile on his face when he promised her that is was important was forced and brittle. And he truly was puzzled when she told him she couldn't say those words to him. That surprised her somewhat. For a man who sees everything, he really could be blind sometimes.

The red flashing lights and Jim's voice hissing "tick-tick-tick" in the background was almost overwhelming as she watched Sherlock's emotions flit across his face. His eyes widened when she had admitted it was true. She wanted to stretch out her hand and touch his face. She saw the moment that he acknowledged it in his mind, and made the calculation to sacrifice their friendship to save her life. And then, she saw how he really had not expected her to demand he say it first. She saw how he had to rapidly compute what she was asking, and how much he thought it was going to cost him.

Molly watched Sherlock close his eyes and take a deep breath before hesitantly, and mechanically speaking.

"I – I… I love you."

She gasped softly as he opened his eyes and looked at the screen – towards what he was seeing of her on the screen. And the expression on his face was almost one of surprise, and the look in his eyes was one of realisation and awe as he softly repeated himself again.

"I love you."

Molly found herself crying again. In joy, anguish and heartbreak. She had wanted to believe that he had meant it the second time and wasn't just acting, and it was clear that he did love her. There just wasn't time for wonder. She knew that Sherlock – Eurus – had hung up immediately after her words. And she wiped her tears as she watched the aftermath.

Sherlock looked as though he would have collapsed as the phone cut out, bending over double with his face in his hands. Mycroft and John heaved huge sighs and relaxed in the background. Molly watched Sherlock straighten, looking utterly exhausted, and Mycroft start to approach him. She saw Sherlock's mask flick into place as he told Eurus he has won and demanded to talk to the girl on the plane.

"Saved her? From what? Oh do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You didn't win. You lost. Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself."

Molly watched something crack in Sherlock before he turned his back to the camera.

"All those complicated little emotions… I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time."

Molly watched as Mycroft and John shuffle uneasily to one side as Sherlock walk past the coffin, setting the pistol down next to it, and continuing to the lid on the back wall. She felt… she didn't know what she felt about the look she had seen in his eye when Eurus had told him he had lost. A door opened to the side and both John and Mycroft edge towards it. They stopped and turned to Sherlock when they heard him pick up the lid and gently lay it on the coffin.

Molly found herself leaning forward, tears streaming down her face again as she watched Sherlock gently rest a hand on the brass plaque and trail it along the wood towards himself, head bowed and shaking slightly. The rage and anguish that Sherlock displayed as he tears her coffin apart with his bare hands was more than Molly ever thought she would see from him. Deep down, she knew he felt, that he struggled with the emotions so he labelled them inconvenient. But to watch him act out his grief with such violence was beyond her. The expression on Mycroft's face as he stood to one side and watched his brother caught her attention too.  _He knew_. He knew, just as Eurus apparently had, just what would break Sherlock. It was her. Molly Hooper. And she thought she didn't count.

Sherlock had told her that she counted the most, but she hadn't believed him. He tended to balance sincerity with manipulation – so why would she believe him. But this put past all doubt how Sherlock truly felt about her. And he felt he had lost her forever. He had saved her, but damaged their fragile relationship in the process. And it looked like that had ruined him.

He sat amongst the devastation of wood splinters and ripped fabric. A wretched figure staring at the ground. It is an image of Sherlock Molly felt would be imprinted in her brain for the rest of her life. She watched as John picked his way through the room to pick up the pistol from where it lay on the floor, and moved to stand in front of the man leaning against the wall. She noted the strength in John's gait. He was standing straighter, and even in his tone as he spoke to Sherlock, she could hear the military man. The soldier. The soldier trying to save the life of the man she loves.

Molly leaned back in her chair and cried. She could never have thought it possible. But Sherlock was right. It was vivisection. Of both of them. No wonder she hadn't seen or heard from him since. He was a broken man. He felt he had lost her completely. And for a while there he had. Truly.

The cameras shifted to a new room – empty from the looks of things, but for three other screens, and the one she assumes the camera is attached to. If she thought Eurus had hit low with the previous room, Molly's jaw dropped in disbelief as Eurus told Sherlock to pick which one to kill: Mycroft or John. She went numb when Sherlock placed the gun under his chin and started counting down. The revelation about Jim – Moriarty – just 5 minutes and the impact it had had on all their lives. How long had Eurus been watching them – her – and their group? The numbness started to have a fuzzy edge to it and a ringing sound in her ears. As she watched John and Sherlock dragged unconscious from the room on the screen and Mycroft glaring balefully at what must have been his sister, the events of what she'd seen and the toll of the last few weeks hit Molly at once, and she felt her body give out as the remote fell from her hand, and the last thing she heard was the door opening and somebody calling her name.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on the events before the final montage in TFP. Molly deserves some answers, Sherlock needs to come to terms with who he is, and Mycroft has years of guilt to atone for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we get to the heart of the matter. I'm trying to keep them all in character.

Molly sat and stared at the static – trying to absorb everything she had just heard, and the few snippets she had just seen. She'd had another front row seat to Sherlock's utter despair, and watch the last vestiges of his emotional armour stripped away as he remembered who Redbeard was: a young boy named Victor Trevor. His best friend. And Eurus had killed him. And nearly killed John in the same well. All because she wanted Sherlock to play with her. So this time he did play, and had solved the riddle.

And after she had done to him and his friends, and their brother, Sherlock's voice had been gentle and patient, and genuine when he had found and saved Eurus – the little girl in the plane – and managed to get her to help him save John. The recording has finished with Sherlock murmuring to Eurus how she was okay and home now. That she would always find her way home with him.

Sherlock's capacity to love and help his sister blew Molly away. She had always suspected that his capacity to care for his friends and family was infinite, but to act with such compassion after being so emotionally and psychologically broken himself.  _Oh Sherlock_. He hadn't been able to save the Governor or his wife, or the three brothers, but he had saved the rest of them: Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, John, Eurus, and herself… Molly just wondered at the cost.

How damaged were Sherlock's walls and how far was he going to need to travel back? Molly knew that he was never going to be the same man she fell in love with: it just remained to be seen who he would now become. She wiped at the tears she hadn't realised had been falling and closed her eyes for a brief moment. Mycroft had given her a priceless gift in this. It had cost them – all of them – but she appreciated what he had done. Taking a deep breath Molly stood, folded the blanket, and switched off the monitor. Straightening, she set her shoulders and moved to open the door, finding Anthea waiting for her on the other side.

"I want to talk to Mr Holmes."

Mycroft was sitting with his chair back to her when Molly was ushered into his office. She crossed the room and sat down, Mycroft made no move to acknowledge her. She frowned and bit her lip.

"Thank you, Mycroft." After what she had just seen, he just wasn't Mr Holmes to her anymore.

There was a pause and her words hung in the air. Mycroft seemed to come back to where he was, and while he remained with his back to her, he lifted his head and spoke to the wall.

"Are you certain you should be thanking me? I wouldn't thank me for what you just witnessed."

He sounded tired, she thought. "Thank you for including me. It was not pleasant, but it gave me…" she paused and winced as she finished the sentence heavily "emotional context."

"In that case, your sentiment is noted."

Mycroft turned his chair to face Molly, and both studied each other in silence for a while. Mycroft, Molly thought, appeared to be searching for the best way to phrase something. She could see his hesitance, and waited for him to speak.

"What you just saw was extremely harrowing, would you please consider taking up the offer to… talk to somebody about it?"

 _Ah_. Molly observed Mycroft closely, she found he couldn't meet her eyes.

"Are you talking to somebody about it, Mycroft?"

He blinked and drew himself up in his chair. "There is no reason for me to – "

"There is." Molly cut in flatly, levelling Mycroft with a stare she usually reserved for his brother. He deflated and sank back into his chair.

"Not yet Dr Hooper – Molly – I…" He ran a hand over his face, "I still need to process some things myself before I talk to anybody else." He saw Molly's raised eyebrow and continued, "and believe me, I will not be… permitted to return to my full capacity at work without submitting to a series of appointments." The  _among other things_  remained unspoken.

Molly nodded. After such a trauma, it would make sense for anyone in a position of high stress to be signed off psychologically first.

Mycroft swung his chair slowly from side to side, watching. "You never answered my question Molly."

She dipped her head in acknowledgement. "Like you, there are things I need to process first. If I find I need to, I will take you up on that offer, Mycroft. Thank you."

Mycroft looked relieved for a brief second before his expression darkened again.

"Dr Hooper," he began, slipping back into formality, "the relationship between my brother and sister has always been frightening and more than a little obsessive on her part. It would break my heart to lose him as well. We have already lost Eurus. She's passed all forms of communication since her return to Sherringford. And Sherlock –"

"I understand." Molly said quietly as Mycroft paused. He looked at her in disbelief.

"Do you?"

"Where is he, Mycroft?"

Mycroft chewed on the inside of his cheek as he measured her. Molly stared evenly back.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Dr Hooper." Mycroft's tone was soft.

"I'll be the judge of that." Molly's was not.

Mycroft blinked. "The psychiatrist's reports are not promising, and I would not cause either of you more stress than you have already endured. I showed you the events of last fortnight to give you context to your own treatment and to explain the absence and behaviour of my brother and Dr Watson. I believe it will be beneficial doe you to see somebody to assist you in coming to terms with what happened to you and its impact on your life."

Molly was genuinely touched by Mycroft's concern, but she felt alarmed by his mention of psychiatrist's reports and Sherlock.

"How is he, Mycroft?"

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and exhaled deeply. "In the words of Dr Watson,  _a bit not good_."

He looked up at Molly again, she could see the exhaustion and anguish in his eyes. "You saw what she did to him. What  _I did_  to him. Sherlock was always the emotional one, before… And not he's found himself inundated with memories and emotions – with recollections he had repressed and sentiments he had shut out and denied for so long. The few times he has needed to be in public he has struggled to maintain his composure. I'm afraid my baby brother is failing to adjust to the overload he is currently experiencing. He isn't sure what is real anymore. In fact, I'm not entirely sure that he is with us himself."

"Where is he, Mr Holmes?"

"Dr Hooper –"

"Mycroft, please. I need to see him."

"You may not like what you see."

"That's where you're wrong."

Mycroft cocked his head to one side, and nodded slowly at Molly.

"Yes." He murmured bitterly. "This seems to be a recurring pattern at present."'

He straightened up in his chair, and assumed his usual persona. "I will have a car take you to him. Sherlock is at my country estate. Should you wish, I can arrange for some of your personal items to be delivered to my guest wing…"

"You've already done that, haven't you?"

"Well… I didn't want to presume…"

"I need to see him, Mycroft. And I accept your offer. Thank you."

Mycroft stood and reached out to clasp Molly's hand warmly. He gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Don't thank me yet, Molly. I'm sorry."

Molly watched the countryside roll past the window.  _You may not like what you see_ , Mycroft had warned her. The encounter with Eurus had changed him. He was warmer to her. He has already organised leave from work for her, and delivered clothing to quarters in his guest wing. He had assured her that Anthea had selected them, and that she had been respectful in her intrusion into Molly's apartment and with the choices she had made. And Mycroft kept apologising. Mycroft apologising scared Molly as much as the recording did.

She hadn't lied to Mycroft – she did understand, or at least, comprehend, Sherlock's disassociation once Eurus had been returned to Sherringford. She'd heard what he had said to his sister before the recording stopped, his promise to her even after everything that had happened.

The car drew up in front of a formidable building and the driver helped Molly out and opened the front door for her.

"He will be in the conservatory at the back of the house, ma'am." With that, he closed and locked the front door behind her and left Molly in the silence of the hallway.

Walking through, Molly took in the dark wood and art, the traditional pieces and the gravity that belonged to such an old building. She made her way to the rooms facing away from the driveway, and saw a door that was slightly ajar. Through the gap, she could see trees through a window, and the sounds of a breeze moving things in the room. She pushed the door open – it moved soundlessly on its hinges – and stood in the doorway.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on the events before the final montage in TFP. Molly deserves some answers, Sherlock needs to come to terms with who he is, and Mycroft has years of guilt to atone for.

The conservatory was a bright room with a wooden parquet floor, a fireplace, and large windows framing views of fairly significant grounds. A door leading outside was open, letting in the cool breeze she had heard, and the sound of leaves in the wind: a sound the reminded her of flowing water. Sitting on a sofa, his body angled away from her, was Sherlock.

Molly studied the motionless figure as she moved quietly into the room. Sherlock was sitting straight on the sofa. His posture was rigid – feet flat on the floor, hands on his knees. She was sure she had moved into his line of sight as she could see now that he was barefoot, in what looked like cotton pants and a t-shirt with a grey dressing gown. But his eyes were fixed and vacant, and he didn't acknowledge her presence. She studied his face. He looked pale and gaunt, he had dark bags under his eyes, and she could see his hands had healed: there were still some shiny bits of new skin here and there, but no scars would mar their beauty. His hair looked freshly washed and he had shaved, so she knew he was at least going through the motions of keeping up appearances.

Molly walked to almost within touching distance and waited. Sherlock still hadn't registered her presence. She frowned slightly. His eyes were open and he wasn't in what she and John termed his 'mind palace pose', but he looked as though his mind was indeed elsewhere.  _I'm not entirely sure that he is with us himself_ , Mycroft had said. Molly shivered.

"Why are you still here?"

She jumped slightly. Sherlock hadn't moved, but he had spoken, his voice thick with exhaustion and grief.

"I've only just arrived Sherlock," she said carefully.

"This time."

 _This time?_  Molly moved more directly into his line of sight. Sherlock's gaze did not stray from the fixed point he was staring at in some invisible place. She stayed silent.

"I know what you're going to say. We've had this conversation several times now, and the conclusion is not going to be any different," he sighed, still unmoving.

"You truly believe I'm a figment of your imagination?"

This is not how Molly expected this conversation to go. But then, she wasn't sure what she had expected.

"Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art though but a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppresséd brain?"

Sherlock looked at her then.

"I see thee yet, in form as palpable as –" His eyes widened as the hand he reached out to her closed around her wrist.

For a few seconds he paused, looking at his hand on her wrist and then up at her face. Letting go, Sherlock stood suddenly and stepped away from Molly.

"You're here." He breathed. "You're…" he gestured at her, "corporeal."

Molly really hadn't expected any of that. She knew of his propensity to recite Shakespeare during his more manic episodes, but this was new.

"Macbeth, Sherlock? Yes, I am here. You are not hallucinating."

"As a hallucination, you would say that."

"Sherlock – "

"Molly – I know you are a figment of my imagination conjured in my guilt as a I have been avoiding you since the events at Sherringford." He looked down at his hands and flexed them. "And since we have repeated this conversation several times since your conjuring, I don't feel the need to have it again."

"You may surprise yourself."

"I highly doubt it. All permutations of this conversation end with the same outcome."

"Then why am I corporeal? Surely that means your parameters have changed."

Molly was treading very carefully, Mycroft had not been joking about his brother's state of mind. If anything, he had understated it.

Sherlock nodded at her point. "Yes, my psychosis is clearly evolving. Perhaps another attempt at this conversation will result in new information."

Molly stepped forward and Sherlock stepped away.

"Why are you here, Molly?"

"I came to make sure you are okay. But I know you're not, so I wanted to see you."

Sherlock frowned. This wasn't how the conversation went.

"Why would you want to see me after what you were put through? What you believe I made you do?"

"Because I love you Sherlock, and I did make you say it first."

Sherlock started. This was definitely not how this conversation went. He shifted on his feet.

"That's not how this conversation goes."

"That's because you haven't been talking to the right Molly."

Sherlock stepped closer this time and reached out for her wrist. She allowed him to take it and feel her pulse. He blinked and his eyes cleared slightly.

"Molly Hooper. You are really here."

This time, he let go of her wrist and stepped back to observe her.

"Why are you here?"

"I saw everything Sherlock." She swallowed before continuing. "I needed to see you."

Sherlock shook his head. "No Molly, why are you here?"

"For you."

Sherlock choked back a bitter laugh, and turned away from her to look out at the garden.

"For me? I'm a walking shadow – a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. I'm nobody, Molly Hooper. I'm nothing but the sum of other people's lies and my own delusions. I don't exist and I don't count."

Molly grabbed his arm and turned him to face her.

"I see you, Sherlock Holmes. I know you. And you've always counted to me."

Sherlock shook himself free from her grasp.

"That was all a lie too. Go home Molly. I don't want you here."

Sherlock all but fled the room as Molly stared after him. Once his words had registered, Molly sank onto the sofa where Sherlock had been sitting in and started crying softly into her hands.

Mycroft, watching the proceedings on a feed in his office also put his head in his hands.  _Oh Sherlock, what have we done to you_?

Sherlock closed the door to his suite and, leaning heavily against it, sank to the ground. His mind was a blur of words and feelings – the most predominant among them was condemnation from all corners of his mind for having just told the biggest lie of his life.

Molly was here. She had come for him. She had needed to see him.  _Needed_ , she said. She  _saw everything_ , she said. His mind stopped spinning. She had watched the recording.  _Mycroft_. The conversation hadn't gone as he expected.

"That's because you haven't been talking to the right Molly."

Sherlock raised his eyes to see his Mind Palace Molly sitting on his bed. Now that he looked, he could see the obvious differences between this one and Molly. This Molly was wearing the yellow dress from John and Mary's wedding, her hair was up, she was tanned and her eyes sparkled. The one he had fled from – and he admitted fleeing to himself – looked pale and exhausted. She had lost weight and looked heartbroken. They both held him with an identical gaze though. One that saw him and saw through him… Sherlock stood quickly and started pacing.

 _I see you Sherlock. I know you. And you've always counted to me_.

She did. She always saw him. Because he had let her. She could read him now. She had been able to since helping him fake his death. She could read and anticipate. It had made her stronger, and he had been so very proud of his pathologist for standing up to him and for him. And he had always counted. No matter how badly he had treated her, how rude he had been – she was always there asking him what he needed.

Sherlock stopped pacing. Her. He needed her. Molly knew who he was, despite all his antics and walls, Molly Hooper has grown to know who he was. She was the one that counted the most, and she loved him anyway and she was downstairs and,  _oh_.

"Yeah mate. A bit not good."

Mind Palace John was now leaning against the wardrobe door. Sherlock flicked his hand and they both vanished. Frowning, he turned to look at the gardens from his window. He had been the pilot to bring Eurus safely to land. She was his sister and he loved her – despite everything. She was too brilliant for him to understand, but he was her anchor. Could Molly be his? He couldn't lose her. Her loss would break him. He trusted her with his life. Could he trust her with his mind?

 _You may surprise yourself_.

 _Oh brilliant_. She was brilliant. And he was a bastard. He put his head in his hands.  _Oh Molly, what have I done?_


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on the events before the final montage in TFP. Molly deserves some answers, Sherlock needs to come to terms with who he is, and Mycroft has years of guilt to atone for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I'm portraying the characters realistically. Well, as realistically as I can.

The house was too quiet when Sherlock made his way back down the stairs. It was empty, and a well of panic started to swell inside him. He walked back into the conservatory – heart in this throat – only to find it deserted. There was a slight clicking from the roman blind moving gentle in the breeze against the top of the open bay door. It was the only sound in the room.

Sherlock dropped his head to his chest, closing his eyes and sighing. He was a complete and utter bastard, and he could feel his lifeline back to sanity slipping away. Idly, he wondered if this was how Eurus had felt. Resigning himself to his fate, Sherlock walked out onto the porch overlooking the gardens. He decided that if he were to go insane, he may as well enjoy the fresh air at the end.

"You are such a drama queen." Mind Palace John joined him at the stone railing. "You don't give yourself, or Molly, enough credit sometimes."

Sherlock huffed at the figment of his imagination, and Mind Palace John turned to him with a blazing look in his eyes.

"Sherlock, you utter prat, listen to me. You're the one who keeps on telling me that I don't observe. Well, I hate to break it to you mate, but you're doing a bloody fine job of wallowing in self-pity instead of observing right now." Sherlock frowned. The John of his Mind Palace tended to be a fairly blunt voice of reason, and now he was very insistent.

Sherlock could sense the maelstrom of thoughts and emotions start to close in again, but he had a feeling he was missing something. Something important. He gazed back over the garden as he tried to grasp for some cohesion and rationality as his mind threatened to lose itself again.

 _There_. Time froze. At the far end of the well-manicured herb garden was the unmistakable figure of Molly Hooper, her hands lightly grazing the tips of the rosemary bushes, walking in the direction of a stone seat under a large oak tree. Sherlock's heart stuttered, and began to race.  _Molly is still here_. He needed her to – He needed her. He just… Needed Molly. To anchor him. To keep him safe. To remind him who he was.

He was shaking slightly as he walked down the stone stairs and felt the cool grass beneath his feet and between his toes. He paused then, in mild and growing panic. He had no idea what he was going to do or say. Abruptly, his body overrode his mind and he started walking. He just needed to get to Molly.

Molly felt drained. She knew that Sherlock had lied to her when he fled the room. She had seen the panic and hysteria in his eyes. She also knew that she had been emotionally fatigued from watching the recordings, and from her life since that fateful phone call. Sleep hadn't come easy. She wasn't hungry either. She knew that she was nearly at her point of failure, and she wondered if it would matter if she just curled up into a ball of exhaustion and tears. She didn't think anybody would blame her. But she knew the person who could help her wouldn't – and was in no fit state to either… And she didn't know if he ever would be again.

She ran her hands gently over the tops of the rosemary bushes as she walked aimlessly through the gardens. She could smell the clean, calming oils from the disturbed branches. It relaxed her. She saw a stone seat ahead, and realised she'd been walking to it all along. It was in the shade under a very old oak tree. Raised slightly higher than the rest of the greenery – the seat surveyed a good portion of the estate and the house. Sinking down onto the seat, she leaned back against the trunk and closed her eyes. Molly felt numb. She just wanted to sleep and to forget.

She didn't know how long she sat under the tree, listening to the breeze in the leaves before the seat shifted with the weight of another person. A tentative, but shaky hand suddenly rested gently on top of her white-knuckle grip of the seat edge.

"Molly –"

She released her hold on the stone and slowly turned her hand over to intertwine fingers – palm to palm. She felt her hand lifted, and then a gentle kiss of her knuckles. Molly opened her eyes and looked at him. Sherlock gently untangled their hands and moved to kneel in front of her. She said nothing as he stared at her: etching her face into his memory. Molly examined his face carefully. Sherlock looked haunted. She could see how gaunt he had become by the hollowing of his cheeks and the protrusion of his clavicle peeking out from his t-shirt. The bags under his eyes looked like bruises from his lack of sleep – but his eyes were stormy. Passionate. Terrified. Apprehensive.

She touched his cheek and he leaned into her hand. They didn't break eye contact. Molly's thumb gently stroked his cheek as she watched the last of his defenses against her crumble.

"I love you."

She smiled, she could feel her tears. She leaned forward to gently capture his lips. It's a soft kiss, and as she pulled back, she saw Sherlock relax and breathe deeply.

"And I love you, Sherlock, it's always been true."

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a broken sob. Molly gathered him to her chest and held him as he cried, still kneeling in front of her in the garden under the tree.

Once his sobs subsided, the sun had begun to lower. She could see his eyes were a little red and puffy from crying, but clearer than they have been. Molly stood and helped Sherlock up, lacing her fingers through his. She led him back to the conservatory, and he followed in silence, squeezing her hand gently every now and then as if to reassure himself that she was real.

She sat him down on the sofa where she had first found him, and closed the bay doors to keep the evening breeze out. She could feel his eyes watch her every movement. She smiled softly at him as she sank down next to him before arranging them so that they're both were lying down, and he was using her as a pillow. She could tell he was listening to the sound of her heartbeat.

She played with his hair when he began to tense up. Suddenly, she understood. Pitching her voice low, she gently stoked Sherlock's curls.

"You're okay Sherlock. You're home now. I'm right here and I'm not going to let you get lost. I'll always make sure that you come back to me. You're safe now. It's okay."

She continued to play with his hair and gently rub his back as he squeezed his arms around her with another set of strangled sobs before slowly falling asleep, holding her. She found that she was quite comfortable as she listened to Sherlock's breathing even out, and soon Molly too drifted off – feeling safe for the first time in weeks.

She woke briefly as somebody covered them with a blanket. The fire must have been stoked because she could see Mycroft's gentle smile in the light of the flames as he nodded to her before walking away. Feeling whole and warm, Molly fell back to sleep easily.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on the events before the final montage in TFP. Molly deserves some answers, Sherlock needs to come to terms with who he is, and Mycroft has years of guilt to atone for.

Sherlock woke to find his pillow breathing and the sound of a heartbeat.  _Molly… My Molly._  He adjusted his position slightly and she curled around him – still very asleep. Feeling grounded, he closed his eyes and reached for his Mind Palace.

The maelstrom clouds were still swirling overhead, but they seemed further away now, less threatening. They spun over Musgrave Hall… he finally realised that's what the outside of his Mind Palace looked like. He concentrated briefly and found himself in a passage of rooms. Slowly, he began to walk, touching each door gently: identifying which rooms needed revisiting and which were untouched. He came to an open door. Mind Palace Molly leaned in the doorway of her room and smiled at him. He stopped in front of her, and she stepped forward, placing her hands on his shoulders, she rose onto her toes and kissed him gently before stepping back.

"You are safe now, Sherlock. Do what needs to be done."

He touched her cheek and carried on walking down the corridor. Things that had torn loose where falling back into place, and new rooms were being created. Sherlock walked into one of them and concentrated on several large boxes, bookshelves and a reading chair. The maelstrom outside the window weakened slightly as the boxes appeared. He made note of this and the time it would take to finish this room, and stepped back into the hallway to continue his examination.

He didn't know how long he spent in his Mind Palace, but something brought him back. It wasn't Molly – she was still asleep – so it must have been something else. It was then that Sherlock noticed the cashmere blanket covering them. Mycroft. He heard a vague sound of somebody in the kitchen down the hall and resolved to get up.

Gently disengaging himself from Molly, he readjusted the blanket over her sleeping form, and after a few moments of drinking in the slight of the woman he loved, he padded out of the room and went to find his brother.

Mycroft had just finished fixing two cups of tea and setting them on the island benchtop when Sherlock walked in. Moving to stand opposite his brother, the two men silently assessed each other over the steaming brew in front of them.

Sherlock watched Mycroft scan him intently, and, seeing something, relax and offer a half-smile. The exhaustion was evident, but the fear that had been etched on Mycroft's face when Sherlock walked in had faded during the examination.

Mycroft felt utterly relieved. Sherlock's eyes were clearer, aware, and present. His posture more relaxed and familiar than it had been in weeks. Mycroft felt his tension drain from his body as his little brother looked at him and quirked an eyebrow. It was almost a priceless gift.

"Welcome back brother mine," he slid a cup and saucer towards Sherlock, not breaking eye contact, "you have no idea how good it is to say that to you." He paused briefly. "You must understand Sherlock, that since you met John Watson, Molly Hooper has had the power to make you or break you."

"Explain."

"John filled the hole left by Victor: the gaping wound you yourself compartmentalised and blocked from your memories. He allowed you to experience emotions and sentiment that you had completely disregarded. John became a lens, the voice at your shoulder – if you will – to see how you could become a good man. Molly Hooper made you want to be that good man. As you have said on many occasions, brother mine, she counted the most. You have trusted her with your… vessel… and your mind more than John. And more than me."

"I have great confidence in her abilities."

"Yes, and she has the patience of a thousand martyred saints, but there is more to it, and you are finally beginning to comprehend that."

"No talk about sentiment being for the weak or entertaining goldfish?"

"Molly Hooper is no goldfish, Sherlock. And sentiment is what makes you the strongest of the Holmes siblings. I will never be a good man, Sherlock. The things I have done, the lies I have told, and the decisions I have made have been for the good of this country, and to protect you. And… our sister. But you, baby brother, have always been the most important person in my life, and after Musgrave, I swore to always be there for you and to protect. I cannot lose you, Sherlock. It would break my heart."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft for a long while in the growing silence. Mycroft's head was bowed, his shoulders hunched, and his palms pressed so hard into the benchtop that his hands were white and shaking.

"You showed her the recording to save my life."

"Yes." It was simple and quiet.

"And you did not think about how it would effect her?"

Mycroft laughed bitterly. "Effect her? Sherlock, showing her that record probably saved her life too. She… she hasn't been in a good way since… Sherringford… and you not contacting her, and the government going through her house to debug it… Sherlock that woman is as bound to you as you are to her. Yes, it cost both her and myself a great deal for her to watch what happened, but if anybody deserved to see the context of their vivisection, it was your Dr Hooper."

Sherlock paled. He had been battling his demons so long that he had missed hers.

Mycroft looked at his brother with a gentle expression on his face. "I brought her here to help me save you. And to help you save her. I am envious of your capacity to love, Sherlock. You don't need to disregard it: it is safe now, and here. I know you love her Sherlock, just as she loves you. Just explore it."

"I can't believe I'm getting advice about love from you of all people, Mycroft."

Mycroft finished his tea. "It's as bizarre for me to be giving it as it is for you to be hearing it, believe me." He checked his watch and grimaced. He started moving for the door. "I must get going. Dr Hooper – Molly's – things are in the guest wing. Oh, and Sherlock, it is good to see you again. I've been worried."

Sherlock stared at his brother's receding back as his tried to wrap his head around everything Mycroft had just told him. He clearly wasn't the only one who had fallen to sentiment. He smiled slightly, feeling lighter. His gaze landed on a stovetop espresso pot. His thoughts turned to Molly.

She had looked exhausted. She had lost weight. There hadn't been that spark in her eyes when he first realised she was standing in front of him. She had been suffering too… Sherlock felt ice spread through his gut at the revelation. Molly could anchor him, and he could try be the man she believed he could be. They had time.

He walked around the counter to fix a pot of coffee. His Molly would probably appreciate waking up to a freshly brewed cup of coffee.


End file.
